


Came Along and Moved Me

by goingdownin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Parentlock (mentioned), Sherlock Dances, sherlock and john dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingdownin221b/pseuds/goingdownin221b
Summary: I was listening to some oldies, and then this happened.-Or-Sherlock dances with John.





	Came Along and Moved Me

John wasn't quite sure he could trust his ears. He’d only just shut the door of 221 behind him and already he could hear the music emanating from the flat above. He looked up the stairs, intrigued, but the door was shut.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye: Mrs. Hudson had heard him come in-–somehow–-and was gaping at him with an expression that John imagined mirrored his own. She was holding a forgotten feather duster in one hand.

Wordlessly he pointed up the stairs and raised his eyebrows.

Mrs. Hudson’s expression wavered from bewilderment to a fond smile in response.

“Has he done this before?” John yelled.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and raised her hands to indicate, of course, that she had known Sherlock for years and still had no idea _what_ he did. Then she backed up and closed her door, but not before he caught something that looked suspiciously like a wink being thrown at him.

John couldn't help how his smile grew as he mounted the seventeen steps to their flat. At least he was relatively certain that the musical racket meant that Sherlock was in a good mood.

He opened the door and stood on the threshold, his smile holding steady as he observed Sherlock dancing unabashedly to one of the American golden oldies from the 50's.

_“You broke my will, but what a thrill….”_

Sherlock spotted him right away and quirked an amused grin at him that said he knew John was catching him doing something frivolous and ridiculous, and that was exactly the point. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and–-yes, oddly enough–-a vintage band t-shirt from some group John had unsurprisingly never heard of.

Things had been quite different since John had moved back into Baker Street. For one thing, Sherlock was more relaxed-–playful even; he dressed casually most days, especially on the weekends. Also, he had taken on the role of co-caretaker of Rosie without the slightest nudge from John (who never had any intention of asking his friend to take on such a burden. If anything, he had worried about how how long he and a baby could really keep out from underfoot).

And this moment highlighted another new development which kept surprising John whenever he had occasion to notice it: Sherlock had held himself with a subdued sort of tension ever since they’d first met (he was always graceful, yes, but at times seemed stiffly choreographed), yet now it was as though he had stopped bracing for some inevitable impact. The tension had melted from his frame and he was all loose fluidity–especially right now as he shimmied goofily over to John. He grabbed the doctor’s hands and spun him around into the sitting room, hooking the edge of the front door with one foot and giving it enough of a push that it swung shut securely behind them.

_I laughed at love cause I thought it was funny_

_But you came along and moved me honey_

_I’ve changed my mind_

_This love is fine_

_Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!_

Sherlock twirled John out and pulled him in again, then again out and spun him around in a circle under his arm-–lanky git (John made sure it was plenty evident that he was rolling his eyes). His too-tall friend mouthed the lyrics in an exaggerated, animated manner, laughing at John even as he did so. When they were facing each other once more, still dancing, John narrowed his eyes a bit to indicate that he found this behavior surprising and maybe even alarming enough to have his flatmate committed.

Sherlock pretended not to understand even though the two could interpret each other’s subtlest expressions quite well by that point in their friendship. They’d been past needing to explain themselves for years, as a matter of fact.

_Well, I want to love you like a lover should_

_You’re fine, so kind_

_Got to tell this world that you’re mine, mine, mine, mine….”_

John took Sherlock’s stock advice and covertly glanced around the room. Understanding dawned when he spied a package torn open on the table Sherlock utilized as a desk, Harry’s handwriting visible on the front.

Harry had been sober for a few months. She was clearly trying her hardest, and though it was difficult to feel optimistic without also feeling a bit heartbroken, John still felt that this try was more promising than any that had come before it. And now his dorky sister’s sentimental side was showing: during the brief time in their early teens when the two had gotten on well (prior to Harry coming out to their folks), the siblings had often bopped around to some of the older rock n'roll when they were alone and bored. They had shamelessly (behind closed doors, at least) enjoyed Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, The Everly Brothers, Ritchie Valens, The Temptations, and too many other bands from the 50's and 60's to count now, especially since many of them had been one-hit-wonders. Evidently she had burned him a CD to remind him of those days, and Sherlock–who still had absolutely no respect for personal property and obviously never would–had beaten him to it. He also, no doubt, did not need the meaning of the gift spelled out.

_Well kiss me baby_

_Mmmm feels good_

_Let me love you like a lover should_

_You’re fine, so kind_

_I’m gonna tell this world that you’re mine mine mine mine…._

John took in the moment, memorizing the sight of Sherlock dancing. An overpowering wave of warmth rose in his chest suddenly as it occurred to him that, for the first time, he was right where he should be. Harry’s recovery was part of it. Rosie was part of it. And Sherlock-–the two of them being back at 221b together–-well. That was the biggest part. Now he was here, goofing around fondly with a man who had vehemently spurned the notion of romantic entanglement for the whole of his life thus far. A man who had orchestrated this moment of realization for John’s benefit, 100% cognizant of the message he was sending and of the fact that his partner-in-crime-solving–-not such an idiot after all–-would see and observe his intentions clearly.

_“Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!”_

The song came to an end. Ray Charles’ “I Got a Woman” immediately picked up in its place but Sherlock released his hands, still laughing, and said something about wine as he strode to the kitchen on those long legs of his.

John turned the volume on the music down ever-so-slightly and followed. He came to stand behind Sherlock and watched him pour a glass of white wine for each of them.

“Rosie’s staying on with your parents for the weekend then, I take it.”

“Yes. They begged to keep her.” Sherlock turned and handed him his glass, and all at once the light went out of his expression as a hint of guilt appeared in his eyes.

His very, very blue eyes. John swallowed, though he’d yet to take a sip from his glass.

“I hope that was okay,” Sherlock said sheepishly. “I should have asked.”

John smiled slowly, and Sherlock looked puzzled at his friend’s evident pleasure. He had failed to let John make the executive parenting decisions, and as far as he understood it that was a _bit not good._

John shrugged, a brief little lift and fall of his shoulders. He rocked back on his heels and raised his glass toward Sherlock as if toasting him. “Not at all, actually. I mean….” John paused, and they stared at each other for a moment. “You’re…sort of like her other parent, right? It’s…fine.” The blond flushed slightly and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. He suddenly remembered his drink and took a swig.

Sherlock continued to stare for a moment, something quiet and understated playing out in his eyes and around the corners of his mouth. “I…am?”

John smiled, baffled. “Of course?” Then, taken aback, “We’d be lost without you.” His smile faded as Sherlock continued to need a moment to absorb that. He looked down at the floor, gathered himself, and then met Sherlock’s eyes again. With gravity, but also with a tight chest. “Hell with it. That’s not really what I meant to say. I mean that _I_ … _I_ , would be lost without you.” He swallowed again, suddenly. “Sherlock.”

Abruptly, Sherlock reanimated and downed half his glass. He set the rest on the counter behind him, distracted. “John….”

“Yes…?”

“Put your glass down,” Sherlock said solemnly.

John had long since passed the point of questioning Sherlock’s demands; it was useless to deny him, and honestly he never _wanted_ to. He set his glass on the table behind him, gaze fixed on Sherlock.

“So…you’re okay with my role in your daughter’s life.”

John nodded, not sure that he could--or should--speak.

Sherlock stepped minutely closer. “And…my role? You’re happy with that?”

A pause. “Could be better,” John murmured, his voice huskier than he would have liked.

“Better…how?”

Those pale eyes, flickering back and forth as they studied his own.

John’s left hand had reached out before he was even aware of having the intention to move. It settled gently in the slight curve of Sherlock’s waist, and John’s thumb stroked over the thin t-shirt reverently. Sherlock looked pained. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

John pulled, and Sherlock shuffled closer. Close enough that John was able to brush the tip of his nose against the other man’s. His heart was pounding; he felt almost ill with adrenaline, but it was so late in the game. So very, very late.

“You could kiss me,” he whispered, and looked up from beneath his lashes at the taller man, who he could see was trembling and regarding him with something like a mix of desperation and fear. “You could…” he lifted up just a bit on his toes, his lips brushing Sherlock’s, “never, ever stop kissing me.”

Sherlock released a shaky, explosive breath and grabbed John’s collar, pulling him to his tip-toes to press their lips together. After an intense, shiver-down-both-their-spines moment, he pulled back a fraction for a breath, then met John’s lips once again even more fervently.

John clutched him tightly and very gently sucked at Sherlock’s bottom lip, and then the top. Sherlock hummed, but even with his eyes closed his face had relaxed into something uncharacteristically dreamy, and he was very likely unaware he'd made any sound at all.

“Yes?” John whispered with Sherlock's forehead butted up against his, a tiny smile curling the ex-soldier's lips.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s long fingers framed his face gently, the tips of his thumbs tracing his bottom lip. “Yes anything. Yes always, please.”

And then they resumed with the never stopping.


End file.
